Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Light
The silence in the hallway felt like a physical weight, pressing down on the worn floorboards until I thought they might snap. Marco’s eyes were fixed on Emma, his gaze so intense that my daughter stepped entirely behind my hip, hiding from the terrifying man in the wet coat.
"She's my daughter," I said, my voice barely audible above the hum of the SUVs outside.
"How old is she, Sophia?" Marco stepped closer, his heavy shoes clicking on the floor. Oliver was still clinging to his shoulder, but Marco's focus had completely shifted.
"She's six," I said, trying to stand taller, trying to block his view of her. "She's mine, Marco. Just mine."
"Don't lie to me," he rasped, a sudden, fierce emotion breaking through his stone mask. He set Oliver down on the floor, gesturing for one of his men—a massive guard who had appeared at the door—to take the boy to the car. "Leo, go with Uncle Nico for a minute. Daddy needs to talk to the lady."
"Okay, Daddy," Oliver said, his small hand waving at Emma. "Bye, Emma!"
As soon as the door closed behind Oliver and the guard, Marco slammed his hand against the wall beside my head. The plaster cracked slightly. He didn't touch me, but his presence was a wall of heat and fury.
"Six years," he growled, his face inches from mine. "You ran away while you were pregnant with my child? You let me believe you were dead? I spent a year pulling the East River apart looking for your car, Sophia!"
"Because you would have raised her to be a monster!" I screamed back, the fear finally turning into raw, unyielding rage. "Look at your life, Marco! Look outside my house! You have three armored trucks and men with guns just to pick up a four-year-old child! I didn't want that for her! I wanted her to have soup, and crayons, and a normal school where nobody has to check the underside of the car for explosives before they go to kindergarten!"
Emma let out a small, frightened whimper from behind me.
Marco stopped. He looked down at the little girl, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped to both knees, bringing himself to her eye level. The fearsome mafia don, the man who had taken over the Moretti syndicate after his father's death, looked completely broken.
He reached out a large, calloused hand toward Emma, his fingers trembling. "What's your name?" he asked softly, his tone completely different from the one he used with me.
"Emma," she whispered, her voice tiny.
May you like
"Emma," Marco repeated, a single, strange tear escaping his eye and mixing with the rainwater on his cheek. "You have your grandmother's curls."
He looked up at me, his expression turning into something hard, unyielding, and terrifyingly permanent. "You ran well, Sophia. But the race is over. Pack your things. Both of you are coming with me."
